Another Life

by Jodie Chapman

  I reached out and gently rubbed the finger where her ring used to be. ‘What happened there?’

  She withdrew her hand and slid down the bed, under the covers, out of sight. I followed. The sheet brushed against my ear. The little space we now inhabited was both light and dark with nowhere to hide.

  Anna turned to face me, tucking both hands under her cheek. ‘People change,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘I think they do. And sometimes people change and we don’t want them to. We expect them to stay exactly the same, exactly how we know them, because we think our experience of them is who they are. But you never truly know a person.’

  ‘True.’

  She looked down. ‘If I wear a ring, it doesn’t mean ownership, of me or my body. It’s a mutual understanding, perhaps. But we only ever belong to ourselves.’

  I felt the warmth of the sun through the cover. It felt like both heaven and hell to be in such a confined space with her. ‘I guess people have different views on what a ring means. Best be on the same page before you put one on.’

  She reached out and stroked the same finger on my hand. ‘And yours?’

  ‘You know my shit. Sore subject.’

  ‘I still think it means something.’ She turned on to her front, propped up on her elbows. ‘To stand in front of everyone and say, This person. I choose him. There’s a braveness to it.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  She rested her head against the pillow and looked at me. ‘Who you are at nineteen is a world away from who you are at thirty-five.’

  ‘Was he not on board with the whole leaving-the-flock?’ I tried to ignore the familiar scratching in my throat, the craving for my vice.

  Anna gave a slight shake of her head. ‘I expected it, though. As a woman, there’s a script you’re meant to follow in the religion. The husband’s in charge. He owns your body, makes the decisions, and if the wife doesn’t obey then it reflects badly on him.’ She bit her lip. ‘And he cared a lot about what others thought of him.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you sticking to a script, especially that one.’

  Her smile faded. ‘He was lovely when we met. We got on well, and I thought, This is a man who will love me and let me be who I am. But it takes a strong mind to resist conformity, and strong minds are not encouraged. We threw ourselves into playing the roles expected of us, but I knew almost straight away that I could never be what they wanted. I tried. I thought having a baby might do it, make it easier for me to play the part. But it only made it worse.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I wasn’t just responsible for myself any more. I’d brought this brand-new person into the world, and I cared more for him than I did for some spirit in the sky. But even as a mother, you’re meant to love God more than your child. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t understand the concept of a god who would want me to do that, and the thought of it wouldn’t leave me alone. And then there was the example I was setting to Joe … I don’t want my son growing up to think he has the right to tell his wife who to be. His dad wasn’t trying to be cruel, but he’d morphed himself so much into who he thought he should be that I didn’t recognise him any more. And I didn’t recognise myself.’

  ‘You did the right thing for Joe,’ I said, taking her hand.

  ‘Is it strange for you, that I have a son?’ Her eyes on mine.

  ‘It’s a part of you I know nothing about.’ My grip tightened on her hand. ‘But I would like to.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a fraud any more, Nick. Pretending to be someone I’m not. And I won’t be with someone who thinks that I should be. It’s a funny way to love.’

  My cravings had now doubled in intensity, and all I could think about was punching the pillow and kissing her. She could read minds, because she threw the covers off her bare legs and said, ‘You go into the garden for a cig and I’ll finally make that coffee.’

  It was a small cobbled yard hemmed in on all sides by the crumbling brick walls of other buildings. A red child’s bike rested against the side gate and large jungle plants lived in the corners. I imagined her out here in the coming warm evenings with a book, lit by the tungsten glow of the fairy lights draped around the walls. It had obviously been a fairly depressing space, once upon a time, but she’d transformed it. Stretching over from next door were the branches of some kind of Japanese tree, its maple-shaped leaves a fiery shade of red. I recognised them as the same as the branch in her bedroom.

  I sat on a garden chair and leant against the wall, enjoying the first hit of the first cigarette.

  ‘Enslaved by your addiction,’ she said, appearing at the doorway. Her arms were folded across her chest and her top had slipped from her shoulder.

  I exhaled. ‘Aren’t we all?’

  She looked up at the sky and closed her eyes against the sun. ‘Can you believe this is February?’

  I watched her enjoying the heat. Global warming wasn’t something to celebrate, but it had been a long, hard winter.

  She stretched out her arms and yawned. ‘Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Aren’t I sweet enough?’

  Anna smiled, a shy smile I’d not seen before, and then she disappeared through the door.

  I watched the coffee swirl in a blue-and-white patterned teacup.

  ‘My mum had this china,’ I said, and a memory appeared of it in pieces on the floor.

  ‘Mine too,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s called Willow. There was a box of it in the charity shop. Plates, cups, saucers, all for a tenner. Not sure when I’ll use the gravy boat.’

  ‘All those dinner parties you’re going to host?’

  She made a face. ‘Yeah, I can just about make toast.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘Guess I need to learn now, though. I’ve reverted back to childhood, figuring things out for myself again.’

  I looked down at my cup. A tiny fly floated in the black liquid. ‘It must be scary, starting again. Being alone.’

  ‘When are we ever not?’ She set her cup down on the side. ‘I’m tired of someone always wanting a piece of me. I can’t be what everyone wants me to be all the time. It’s exhausting, living like that. Isn’t it?’

  I nodded without really considering the question. I do that sometimes, give the reaction that I think the other person is expecting or wants. Part of me thinks this is one of my good attributes, pleasing others, but it doesn’t seem to do me many favours.

  ‘As I get older,’ said Anna, ‘I feel more and more like an island. We’re born alone and we die alone. So much of my life was about moulding myself to someone or something, as if I could escape the reality. But we’re always alone.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a comforting thought.’

  ‘Whether or not it’s comforting is irrelevant. You can’t base belief on what you’d like to be true.’

  ‘Then how do we connect with another person? How does that explain the bond we can feel with someone else?’

  She sipped her coffee as she considered the question. ‘Perhaps we’re all connected deep down at the root. An island is alone above water, but at its very depths where everything is hidden, it’s attached to the earth’s core.’

  ‘This is becoming quite the philosophical discussion.’

  ‘Too much for you?’ she replied with a smile.

  ‘I never imagined you in a house like this, though,’ I said, nodding at the Tudor brick walls that threw us in shadow.

  ‘Me neither,’ she said, looking up. ‘But the rent’s cheap and it serves its purpose. What kind of house did you see me in?’

  I stroked my beard as I thought about it. ‘A gypsy caravan, perhaps.’

  She laughed. ‘So not a house at all then?’

  ‘No. I guess not.’

  ‘A person’s home reveals a lot about them. Who they think they are or who they want to be.’

  I looked up at the bedroom window. ‘And what do poky windows and rooms reveal about you?’

  ‘I’d love big windows –
all that light – but then people would always be looking in. Here, I can hide.’ She pushed up her sleeves. ‘This is just a springboard to somewhere else.’

  I nodded and this time meant it.

  Anna put out a hand and almost touched me. ‘There’s something I’d really love to do, and it’ll involve me encouraging you to smoke, so you should say yes.’

  I picked the fly out of my coffee and drained the cup. ‘This sounds dangerous.’

  ‘Can I paint you?’

  ‘Like one of your French girls?’

  She laughed loudly and the tips of my ears began to burn. Nice one, I said to myself.

  ‘Oh God,’ she said, putting a hand to her mouth. ‘Titanic is the perfect analogy for us.’

  ‘I always thought we were more BDSM.’

  There was a glint in her eye, as if she’d caught me out. ‘So he’s finally admitting he’s into games.’

  ‘I think we all know who’d be the dominant one in this relationship.’

  She reached out and took the cup from my hand. ‘Watch your lip. Now, I’m painting you and I won’t take no for an answer.’

  I put my hands out in front as if waiting to be cuffed and she gave me a light slap.

  ‘Shall I put some clothes on?’ I said, looking down at my loose boxers and T-shirt.

  She shook her head. ‘I want you smoking and just like this.’

  I waited as she set up her easel and paints. She’d put on jeans and a navy smock that reminded me of the lab coat I used to wear in Chemistry, when we’d mix powders together and blow things up. Her hair was piled on top of her head as if to eliminate every distraction. My top lip began to sweat.

  ‘Back in a sec,’ I said, but she was too busy working out the light to hear.

  In the bathroom mirror I tried to picture what she’d see when she began to paint, when she had nothing to do but study me. There was a hard gnawing in my stomach, the butterflies an actor feels on opening night.

  I should have said no.

  As I came out, I looked in on the unmade bed we’d slept in. It fascinated me as a child, the idea that each night, people across the world go to a specific place in their house to put on special clothes and lie horizontal. It’s as essential as breathing air, this venturing into the unknown. We cannot exist without it. And when awake, new lives are forged and futures made in the space between the sheets. The bed is a portal to another dimension. We know this, even as children, when we pretend our parents’ bed is a boat to distant shores.

  The white pillows still bore creases from the weight of our sleeping heads, and I wondered if I’d ever see this bed again.

  Downstairs, Anna was standing in the open doorway, her body silhouetted against the bright outside. I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she was smiling. ‘Ready?’ she said. A blank canvas leant against the easel.

  ‘Where shall I go?’ Seeing her dressed was a reminder that I was not, and I clasped my hands together in front of me.

  She patted the open door. ‘I was thinking here. Leaning back so you don’t get too stiff. Oh, and lose the shirt. That okay?’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘Always.’

  I pulled my top over my head and dropped it on the chair. ‘Put me where you want me.’

  I let her lead me to the door, where she pushed me gently back against the wood. That familiar small ‘v’ formed between her eyebrows as she concentrated on my body.

  ‘I need my smokes.’

  ‘Don’t start yet,’ she said, tossing me the pack. ‘I’m almost there.’

  ‘How long will it take?’ I could feel the top of my head getting warm in the morning sun.

  ‘You got somewhere to be?’ she said, brushing something off my arm. ‘Because the best things take time.’

  I cleared my throat and rubbed my head. ‘Tell that to the sun before it turns me lobster pink.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she said, moving towards the easel. ‘Let’s start.’

  Anna hit a button on a speaker and music began to play. Classical, strings, a passionate violin.

  I shook the pack and pulled out a cigarette with my teeth, cupping it with my hand as I lit the end. Feeling her eyes, I looked up and she said, ‘God, I love that. How you do that.’

  ‘How I take out a fag?’

  ‘The way you move,’ she said, sharpening a pencil. ‘You do it every day so you don’t see it. But it’s all new to me.’

  I took a drag. ‘I should quit.’

  ‘You really should.’

  ‘But then you won’t think I’m beautiful any more,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t get cocky.’

  ‘Until you’ve tried a cigarette, you have no idea how wonderful it is.’

  ‘Of course I’ve tried a cigarette,’ she said, striking a match and lighting a stick of incense. ‘On your bed, remember? I’m sure I coughed the entire time, and my boy’s severely asthmatic. Hence your confinement to the garden.’ She took a deep breath and raised her hand behind the canvas. ‘Now, quiet. I need to concentrate.’

  She sketched for about half an hour. I felt the passing of time through the sun on my face, as it started on my forehead and worked its way down on to my torso. I chain-smoked throughout, turning to exhale away from the house.

  Anna muttered the odd thing under her breath, but mainly she worked without speaking. I’d turn to look at her sometimes and she’d be casting furious looks at the canvas and occasionally me. I wondered whether she’d stared at me long enough that I’d become a new person.

  ‘You know I’m due back at work Monday,’ I said as I reached into my pocket for the pack and took another fag with my teeth like before. ‘Will it be done by then?’

  Anna kept her eyes on the canvas. ‘Shut it.’

  After she’d finished sketching, she tucked the pencil behind her ear and picked up an artist’s palette from under the stairs. She stood at the table and looked over the pots and tubes of paint that she’d spread out, and one by one, she squeezed a small amount of paint from her chosen colours on to the palette.

  ‘What’s the cost per tube?’ I said, nodding at the table.

  ‘Let’s just say I choose my subjects very carefully.’

  ‘Maybe I should pay you. Isn’t that what people do?’

  ‘I believe prostitution is the oldest job there is, yes.’

  I gave an awkward laugh. ‘No, I mean a patron. I could be your patron. Like the Medicis.’

  She looked at me, impressed. ‘I did not take you for an Art History buff, Nicolas Mendoza.’

  My face began to burn and I shifted against the door in an effort to divert attention. ‘I have many layers, you know.’

  ‘Clearly.’ She picked up a palette knife and began to smear some colours together.

  ‘For transparency, I should probably admit I watched a three-minute video on Renaissance art. That’s the only fact I remember.’

  She turned back to the canvas. ‘Well, that’ll come in very handy next time you’re at a dinner party or trying to pick up a woman. We love that shit.’

  I laughed. Anna began to load on colour and her knife made a repetitive scraping sound against the canvas.

  ‘You’re the first man I’ve painted,’ she said after a minute, her eyes on her work. ‘Apart from a couple of old dudes in a life drawing class, that is. But you’re the first man I’ve known.’

  An ant scurried across the flagstone by my feet, its black body a tiny dot. I watched as it went one way then another, reaching the edge and hesitating before crawling into the shadows between the slabs. ‘Why me?’ I asked.

  She stepped back from the canvas, tipped her head to one side and looked from the picture to my body then back again. ‘Why have we been like this for nearly twenty years?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Never quite taking hold of each other.’

  I closed my eyes against the sun. ‘You and I exist outside the lines.’

  ‘I read an old diary recently,’ she said, picking u
p a paintbrush. ‘I’ve always kept one, writing a few pages now and then about my life and what’s happening. Things I don’t want to forget.’

  ‘I hope I feature prominently,’ I said, my eyes still closed.

  I opened my eyes a moment later to find Anna looking at me. ‘I don’t mention you at all,’ she said.

  ‘That’s nice.’ I brushed my hand against the hair on my arm.

  ‘You think that means I didn’t care?’ She smiled. ‘You were too big to write down.’

  I nudged my toe into the shadows between the slabs where the ant had gone, pushed hard and felt pain from something hidden in the gap. I could sense it had a hard point, sharp, and I felt a twinge of pleasure as it pricked my skin.

  ‘So who did you record for posterity?’

  She arched an eyebrow as she worked the paint. ‘Oh, the one I thought was it, and the one I knew wasn’t. Every girl has one of those.’

  ‘The broken heart?’

  ‘Did I ever tell you?’

  ‘Lisa did.’

  Her brush paused mid-air and she looked confused. ‘Wait, what?’

  ‘Lisa. From the cinema? She told me once on a night out. I got an earful about not hurting you. She seemed like a good friend.’

  Anna looked at her canvas, her eyes glazing slightly. ‘She was,’ she said quietly. ‘We lost touch when I got married. My fault. But yes, a heart was broken and it was definitely mine. It made me more cautious afterwards. Careful.’

  ‘First loves are strange things.’

  ‘Aren’t they? But I’m glad of the experience now. Some people go through life never truly feeling anything.’

  I watched the cigarette smoke curl through the air. ‘I’m starting to wonder if we even want a happy ending. Most people wouldn’t know what to do with it. I think it’s closure that we crave.’

  ‘People don’t want closure,’ said Anna, her eyes on her work. ‘Look how they watch ten seasons of the same show. We’re drawn to the familiar. We want that rush again and again.’

  ‘Sometimes the pain, though,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘You can’t imagine life without it. Relief from that would be something.’

  She stopped painting and looked at me. I saw it out the corner of my eye, her hesitation as she thought of what to say. I counted every beat.